


Messy.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Bondage, Consent Issues, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Male Lactation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 08:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17895374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: The Grandmaster wakes Loki up with... an idea.





	Messy.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



> This is part of my Age Gap Exchange, for LuciferxDamien! Hope you enjoy it!! <3

The hour is late, or early. Time on Sakaar means little: the moments seem to speed past Loki’s notice, and yet the days drip slowly by. The days are short on Sakaar, shorter even than those upon Midgard, let alone the ones on Asgard, and the nights are even shorter, scarcely four or five hours for their duration.

Loki does not sleep as much as he would like.

It is not easy, on Sakaar, to find a place where he might settle and sleep for any extended period, and even were he able to find one, he wouldn’t be able to trust it: the Grandmaster can find him no matter where he goes, and Loki knows he would only retaliate in some way were Loki to attempt to hide himself from him, that he might sleep. It is the safest, by far, to sleep in the Grandmaster’s bed, where no one _else_ might access him, and yet it is not safe at all.

Curious: one rests in the monster’s maw, that one might hide from the horde that runs in the streets of Sakaar City, and rushes through the corridors of the palatial tower.

Loki’s eyes flutter open, and his gaze alights on the Grandmaster where he leans over Loki’s body. Loki is on his back, his arms and legs spread away from his torso, and he knows that the Grandmaster has positioned him this way, for Loki sleeps curled on his side, his limbs drawn against his body, beneath the blankets. He knows he sleeps this way, for the Grandmaster has commented on it before, time and time again.

_Aw, honey, you, uh, you just sleep like a little pillbug, huh? What, you, aha, you frightened I’ll pick one of those cute little legs off?_

_Baby, I could just eat you up, seeing you, mm, curled up like that. Such a pretty kitty. Gimme a kiss._

_Honey, it’s like, when you’re asleep, uh… Well, it’s almost like you don’t **trust** me._

Experimentally, Loki tries to tug one of his wrists back toward him, but it doesn’t budge, tethered by some invisible bond to the mattress beneath, and Loki ignores the tremor of uncertainty that runs up his spine. There is no sense in being uncertain with the Grandmaster: he will do whatever it is he wants to do, and Loki needs only withstand it for some while longer. Soon, he is sure, _soon_ , some way to escape will reveal itself, and then—

And then.

The Grandmaster’s mouth drags over the flat surface of Loki’s belly, and Loki heaves in a choked little gasp, feeling the heat of the Grandmaster’s breath on his cool skin. “Grandmaster,” he says softly, subtly attempting to shift his body on the bed. At least he’d let Loki _wake_ this time—

“Hm? Oh, _hi_ , baby,” the Grandmaster purrs, his voice a low rumble, and his hand slips between Loki’s legs, the heel of his hand grinding against Loki’s cock and making him choke out a noise. “So, uh, so glad to see you’re _awake_ …” He nuzzles against the side of Loki’s pectoral muscle, his tongue flicking hot over the pink bud of Loki’s nipple, and Loki grunts. Despite his uncertainty, ever present where the Grandmaster is concerned, he can feel his arousal growing, feel his cock grow harder as blood rushes down between his legs. The Grandmaster is rubbing a clever circle with the heel of his palm, grinding against the base of Loki’s prick, scarcely much bigger than one of the Grandmaster’s thumbs, and his fingers dip down between Loki’s lips, play over his entrance as he grows more engaged, as wetness begins to gather there.

Loki is torn between the tongue dragging and flicking over his nipple and the hand that plays so well between his thighs: not for the first time, he is beset by visions of the Grandmaster playing his complicated instruments at one party or another, and he moans. “Grandmaster, I… What— What, I wonder, has put you in so amorous a mood? I wish I could… reciprocate.” He tries to concentrate as much implication as he can into the final word, husky and breathless where he says it, and the Grandmaster rewards him with a drag of his teeth before leaning in closer, laving his attentions on Loki’s other nipple.

“Oh, baby, I, ha, I don’t need you to _reciprocate_ ,” the Grandmaster replies, and Loki’s blood has a flash of heat bubble through it when he hears the slight note of warning in the Elder’s tone: he’s mistepped, said the wrong thing, been too transparent in his desire to be released from the Grandmaster’s magical bondage. “I just need you to stay _right_ here.”

Fingers play over the open spread of the lips between his thighs, dragging either side of the entrance there and pressing down upon the flesh, sending a curious line of sensation dragging up and into his body: he moans, pressing his head slightly back into the pillow, and the Grandmaster laughs against his chest. His tongue traces a line to the other nipple, and _teeth_ beset the sensitive skin before the tongue makes its wet apology: each sensation makes Loki whine and gasp, unable to prevent his mouth from letting out _noise_.

“I, uh, I’ve just been thinking, that’s all,” the Grandmaster purrs, and Loki concentrates to keep himself from swallowing, to keep the apple of his throat from bobbing visibly as he gulps on naught but air.

“Oh?” Loki asks. He hopes he sounds solicitous, eager: he knows he sounds _desperate_ , but the Grandmaster likes that. He can feel his skin flush, colouring with lilac shadow, where thick, violet blood has drawn up to the surface, pumping faster in his veins, all the better to— _“Oh_!”

The magic burns.

Or—

It doesn’t _burn_. Loki knows what it is to burn, what it is to feel incandescent heat rip its way into one’s body, make one’s skin bubble away from the flesh and the bone, to _feel_ an inferno engulf one wholly: it isn’t like that that. It isn’t like a surface-level burn, where a hot surface bites at one’s skin and leaves its imprint on the flesh. It is a sort of hot itch that seems to begin in the very bone, a little over the heavy cage of his ribs, and expand outward, driving its way through the skin as rushing water through sand. It _aches_ ; it prickles; it _burns_.

“ _Grandmaster_ ,” Loki protests through gritted teeth, and despite himself, he writhes on the bed, unable to keep still with that awful, formicating pain suffusing the flesh of his breast. It isn’t like shapeshifting, where his body flows as water from one form to the next, used to Loki’s loose instruction, as comfortable in one form as another: the Grandmaster’s ineffable power _rebuilds_ him, remakes him, and leaves the strange taste of his magic beneath Loki’s skin, imprinted inside his veins.

He feels…

Heavy.

He closes his eyes tightly shut as he feels the shift of weight on his chest, but it feels foreign and strange – the flesh is his, but he can still feel the Grandmaster’s influence beneath the skin, buried in the fatty mounds of it, and he can feel the shift and _bounce_ as he moves on the bed, unable to truly struggle. The Grandmaster’s hand still drags between his legs, flicking over his cock, dipping in at the wet slit of his opening, and then his mouth comes down again, enclosing one nipple.

It’s not the same as when his chest was _flat_ , a moment ago, and he opens his eyes, powerlessly, to look: his breasts are fat and heavy, bigger than anything he should usually conjure for himself, when wanting to appear feminine for some purpose or other, and it feels _odd_. There is something in the way the Grandmaster drags over his nipple with his teeth once more, a sort of heavy tension underneath the flesh, one that he has never experienced before, never—

The Grandmaster presses down with his tongue, pressing slightly with his teeth at the same time, and the sensation of _release_ makes Loki keen, the sound obscenely loud on the wide walls of the Grandmaster’s bedchamber before it is absorbed into layers of silk and fur. This is why these foreign _breasts_ are so heavy, why they feel so odd: the Grandmaster has made of him a personal cow, suckling at his breast, and Loki feels the desperate humiliation burst beneath his skin like fireworks, even as his cock gives a jerk against the Grandmaster’s hand.

“Mmm,” the Grandmaster purrs, nuzzling his warm lips between Loki’s breasts, and when his hand draws away from between his legs, Loki is powerless but to release a whimper of loss: the Grandmaster cups his chest with each palm, squeezing. The pressure comes like a lightning strike to Loki’s very _core_ , and he chokes on his next breath. “See, I, ha, I think I really _like_ this, Lo-Lo! So responsive, huh? And these puppies, well, I could play with these all day—”

His mouth descends, and Loki braces himself, but it makes no difference: the Grandmaster’s tongue drags a searing circle about the other nipple, and then _blows_ on it, the cold air making it stiffen, and Loki _wails_.

The Grandmaster squeezes, and Loki’s breath hitches in his throat as he adjusts his grip, pressing his finger and thumb either side of the pink bud, and there’s a curious sensation of desperate release, once more: liquid, thin and slightly sticky, made cool by Loki’s Jötunn physiology, trickles over the Grandmaster’s fingers and over Loki’s skin, and Loki gasps.

“ _Messy_ ,” the Grandmaster whispers, tone slightly chiding even as he chases the errant streams of milk with his mouth, his tongue hot where it drags over Loki’s skin.

“And whose fault is that?” Loki retorts breathlessly, and the Grandmaster laughs. “I didn’t, _ungh,_ I didn’t realise that you… desired—”

“Oh, I _desire_ , ha, pretty much everything, baby,” the Grandmaster says, and then _sucks_ : Loki’s vision is a sea of white, and he moans, his hands clenching tightly into fists. He shouldn’t be so aroused, and yet aroused he is: his own skin is a blur of sensation, and he wants, he _wants_. He is heavy with milk, conjured for the Grandmaster’s pleasure, pinned down that the Grandmaster may keep him precisely as he wants him, and even though the anxiety lingers, his very _soul_ seems to swell at the vulnerability of his position.

The Grandmaster might devour him whole, and Loki could do naught at all.

“Please,” Loki whimpers, and the Grandmaster drops hold of his breast, crushing their mouths together in a hard, bruising kiss: Loki feels the sweet taste of his own milk lingering on his tongue, and he _groans_. He wants, he wants, he _wants_ , and just the Grandmaster’s chest against his own is making his chest _sing_ with desperate want, hot sensation blistering over his every inch of flesh. “Please, Grandmaster, _please_ —”

“Aw, honey,” the Grandmaster whispers against his lips, one hand twisted in his hair, the thumbnail on the other flicking hard over his right nipple, and Loki grunts. “You gotta be more, uh, more specific than that, huh?”

“Fuck me,” Loki says. His lungs are devoid of breath, and he is empty, _aching_ —

“Nuh-uh, honey,” the Grandmaster murmurs. “I think I can… I think I can tease you a little more first, huh?”

 _No_ , Loki wants to wail, _no_ …

“Yes,” he says softly, because he knows better than to do otherwise. “I suppose you can.”

The Grandmaster leans back, and he _beams_ , showing his teeth, and his golden eyes glitter with mischief, even as he cups Loki’s conjured breasts once more, pressing down and making him feel full to the _brim_ , full of tension, and he _chokes_ , arching what little he can from the bed.

Laughing – always laughing, always laughing – the Grandmaster bows his head once more, and Loki moans as he drinks from Loki once again.


End file.
